


Love Like Rain

by tessarine



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessarine/pseuds/tessarine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted snapshots of Yamamoto and Tsuna in love across multiple universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Like Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Ficbits range from fluff to teenage makeouts to adult implied sex. Written for heroicwonder for fyeah8027 Secret Santa 2014. ❤

**▸Christmas sweaters**

“But,” Tsuna protested weakly, his voice muffled in folds of sweater. “But it’s not even that cold inside, Yamam _mmph_.”

“Sorry! I guess that was a sleeve, haha.”

It was a little hard to glare at someone through a sweater, and a little hard to glare at Yamamoto regardless, but Tsuna gave it an admirable effort just the same. He was still frowning when Yamamoto finally found the neck hole and tugged it down until Tsuna’s head emerged again into fresh air with an audible pop. It took them a few more minutes, Tsuna wiggling and Yamamoto laughing unhelpfully, to get the rest of Tsuna’s limbs sorted out through the appropriate sweater openings.

“Kyoko made them,” Yamamoto said, as if that explained everything about the sweaters; and it sort of did, or at least, it explained why Yamamoto and Ryohei and Reborn--of course, Reborn--were all wearing them with every sign of enjoyment.

“But _why_?” Tsuna’s voice was verging on plaintive, though now that the sweater was on it was actually pretty comfortable. And soft. And too warm, but he could just turn on the fan, he supposed.

“Haru.” That was a one-word explanation by itself, Tsuna had to admit, though Yamamoto went on to add, “She says they’re really popular in London. Hey, looks good, though.”

Tsuna glanced down at the sweater involuntarily. He hadn’t really gotten a look at it before Yamamoto ambushed him with it; he’d had an impression of lots of bright orange yarn and Yamamoto’s beaming grin, and then everything went dark as the sweater descended over his head. On the middle of his chest was a small lion that was unmistakably Nuts, little visor worked in sparkling silver yarn. The rest of the sweater was covered in snowflakes.

“She gave me one for Nuts, too.” Yamamoto held up a tiny sweater in matching orange.

“Does it have my face on it?”

Yamamoto laughed. “Good idea! Maybe next year.”

Tsuna’s efforts to figure out the nicest way to say _no, absolutely not,_ were interrupted by a rising demonic snarl from the hallway, followed shortly by the sound of heavy footsteps and Gokudera’s familiar growl of “dammit, Uri!”

“I think she made them for everyone,” Yamamoto added, smiling tranquilly at the sounds of destruction retreating down the hall.

 

* * *

**▸Makeouts while wearing Vongola Gear**

Yamamoto really didn’t plan on it the first time. To be fair, Yamamoto didn’t plan much, aside from training menus and what baseball games he would need to record for later. He definitely didn’t plan how to hijack sparring for impromptu kissing sessions. These things just sort of happened to him, though in retrospect they always seemed like he maybe should have seen them coming.

If he had planned it, though, the sparring session would have been his idea in the first place. And it wasn’t. Tsuna was the one who suggested it, after Basil departed to Italy again and Reborn started making dire noises about finding Tsuna a new sparring partner. Apparently Hibari had been in the running before Tsuna vetoed that. Yamamoto was more than willing to play along: practice was always a good thing, and he was even the same flame attribute as Basil. He sort of made sense as a replacement.

Sort of.

Except where he and Tsuna had this tendency to distract each other whenever they ended up sweaty and in close proximity. He wasn’t quite sure how the sparring match had turned into grappling; that was the problem with practicing with someone that fought hand-to-hand, he guessed. Came with the territory. Which explained, he supposed, how he found himself sprawled on top of Tsuna on the floor of the dojo, his swords lying a short distance away where Tsuna had knocked them from his grip, his hands pinning Tsuna’s heavy gloves above his head, their faces so close their noses were nearly touching. It was hard to be certain with their mingled breath ragged from exertion, but he could have sworn he heard Tsuna’s catch. _Practice_ , he reminded himself hazily.

“Kote point?” he finally asked, giving Tsuna’s glove a meaningful squeeze that Tsuna almost certainly couldn’t feel and grinning down at him. Tsuna blinked back, then smiled that slow smile that should have been fair warning but totally wasn’t.

Then the earth spun around Yamamoto and the wood floor drove the breath from his lungs with a soft oof, so he had no air left to voice a groan when Tsuna’s weight settled over his hips.

“My point,” Tsuna murmured back, leaning down to capture Yamamoto’s gauntlets and stilling any debate with a firm kiss that deepened when Tsuna rocked his weight back and Yamamoto opened his mouth to moan in agreement. Tsuna’s lips were hot against his, his insistent kisses a sweetly sharp contrast to their usual gentle exchange, the rhythm of his hips an increasingly urgent counterpoint against Yamamoto’s. There were benefits to their practice gear once unwieldy gloves and gauntlets were slipped aside, Yamamoto found: Tsuna’s hands slid easily inside the gaping front of his kimono, and Yamamoto’s fingers hooked through the leg cuff--and pressed, very distractingly, against Tsuna’s thigh--could tug Tsuna’s hips down exactly where he wanted them. Practice was mutually forgotten for a good twenty minutes, until the sound of Tsuyoshi’s heavy footsteps outside sent Tsuna leaping off of Yamamoto at probably the least opportune possible moment.

“Practicing hard, you two?” Tsuyoshi asked them beamingly, depositing tea and snacks and departing with what Yamamoto swore was an extremely meaningful paternal look. Unless that was just his guilty conscience talking. He and Tsuna exchanged sheepish grins.

“So… Think you need to get more sparring in this week? Maybe Thursday?” Yamamoto lifted his eyebrows in hopeful inquiry and Tsuna’s smile widened in return. “Or tomorrow. Tomorrow’s good.”

Tomorrow was, in fact, good.

(So the second time, Yamamoto _did_ kind of plan it. And the third. But definitely not the first.)

 

* * *

**▸Ten Year Later Tsuna and Yamamoto, secret flirting in a meeting**

“And if you’ll look at the next page you can see from the graph that research and development is requesting more money than we actually bring in,” the man sitting on the far end of the table continued, his voice a steady and unpunctuated drone. The speech was obviously rehearsed for this important meeting with the Vongola’s boss, and Tsuna was trying--really, really trying--to give it the attention that it deserved. Except that the even, practiced cadence of the words had a hypnotic effect that was lulling her straight to sleep. She surreptitiously dug the sharp corner of the folder into her palm and willed herself to stay conscious just twenty minutes longer. Beside her, Takeko was spinning a pen around her agile fingers, long legs stretched casually under the table, expression pleasant but slightly vacant.

Years ago Takeko laughingly given in to Gokudera’s jockeying for the seat at Tsuna’s right hand and had settled without complaint at Tsuna’s left. Gokudera, Tsuna knew, considered it an admission of defeat. Tsuna personally thought that Takeko had just done it because she was righthanded. As if sensing the direction of Tsuna’s thoughts Takeko glanced over at her, smiled, and very deliberately dropped her pen on the floor.

“ _Takeko_ ,” Tsuna hissed, too late. Takeko bent to retrieve the pen and ran her palm casually up Tsuna’s leg from her ankle to just past her knee, warm fingers sliding over Tsuna’s thin silk stockings and sending tingles all the way up to her spine. Tsuna didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed that the cut of her skirt kept Yamamoto’s fingers from drifting any higher.

“Awake now?” Takeko murmured as she straightened, her eyes bright with poorly concealed amusement. Tsuna could feel the blush heating her face all the way to her ears, but across the table the man was still busy gesturing at figures. Takeko’s fingers crept over the chair towards Tsuna’s thigh again and Tsuna dropped her hand casually to swat.

“I’ll step on you,” she threatened in an undertone, her gaze fixed on the man and his interminable graphs.

“Oooh-- _ow_.”

Tsuna smiled serenely and captured Takeko’s apparently penitent hand in hers beneath the table, her fingers teasing over Takeko’s palm and up the sensitive skin of her wrist. Takeko’s shiver resonated through her fingertips and Tsuna decided this was a much better way to stay awake after all. Across from them the man held up another graph of projected costs and incomes and Tsuna nodded, watching it with half her attention as she traced deliberate patterns on the inside of Yamamoto’s wrist with one fingertip. Later, she spelled; she couldn’t tell if the heated sidelong look Takeko shot her was acknowledgment of the word, or just understanding of the universal language of touch.

_Later_ turned from twenty minutes into thirty, then eventually an hour. Despite Takeko’s relaxed posture it had taken Tsuna some effort to extricate her fingers from Takeko’s hold in order to get up and politely thank and dismiss the men. As soon as they were out the door Takeko locked it behind them.

“Takeko--”

Takeko pushed Tsuna gently back against the table and Tsuna laughed, arching into Takeko’s hands as she slid them down Tsuna’s back and appreciatively copped a feel through her skirt. “Takeko, we’ve only got five minutes before the next meeting,” she pointed out, letting herself be nudged into hopping up on the table anyway, one businesslike pump slipping from her toes to land on the floor behind Takeko as she stepped closer. “They’ll be here any second.”

“We could make it fifteen minutes.” Takeko’s voice took on the reasonable, matter-of-fact quality that she used in lieu of wheedling to make it sound like whatever she was suggesting was only the natural and logical thing to do. To Takeko’s way of thinking it probably was.

“And change the meeting room?”

“Good thinking. That’s why you’re the boss.” Takeko grinned, drawing her palms up the outside of Tsuna’s legs again and dragging her skirt higher, leaning in to steal a kiss. Tsuna savored everything: the softness of Takeko’s lips against hers; the curve of her perpetual smile; the way she teased Tsuna’s mouth open with her tongue; her little noises of pleasure when Tsuna teased back; knowing that in three… two… _one_...

Tsuna felt the swift intake of breath preceding the soft “oh,” and she was already fighting laughter when Takeko pulled back to stare down at her legs with avid interest. Takeko’s fingers traced along the lacy top of the stocking and up the garter suspender to where it vanished under the fabric of Tsuna’s rucked up skirt. With visible effort Takeko tore her eyes away, glanced up at Tsuna with her warmest smile, and asked in hopeful tones, “thirty minutes?”

“Twenty,” Tsuna overruled, and smiled back.

 

* * *

**▸Bedroom cuddling, protectiveness**

People think that just because Yamamoto still goes through every day with a smile, he isn’t aware of exactly how close some of their close calls have been.

Well. Not _people_ , like lots of people. Just Gokudera. And Tsuna’s dad. And Squalo, sometimes, though Yamamoto has come to translate Squalo’s characteristic “take this seriously, you fucking brat!” as “you’re playing my murder games by the wrong rules, and I’m grumpy about it!” Squalo is also the kind of person who’d still be screaming “you trash, do you even fucking know what a strike zone _is_?!” three innings after the call, so Yamamoto only half counts Squalo.

Tsuna gets it.

Tsuna gets it because Tsuna looks at people and really sees them, which is exactly the kind of ordinary thing that’s so special about him. Yamamoto can tell, when they lie sprawled together in Yamamoto’s unmade bed with Tsuna’s arm draped over him and Yamamoto’s fingers eased just under the hem of Tsuna’s shirt, tracing the map of familiar scar tissue, and Tsuna looks him in the eyes and smiles and says “Yamamoto,” softly in that way he has. Tsuna can fit a volume of meaning into just those four syllables. Warmth. Reassurance. Comfort. A tinge of exasperation when Yamamoto’s fingers slide carelessly up the dip of Tsuna’s spine and Tsuna’s steady breathing turns shaky with suppressed laughter until he squirms and smacks his palm against Yamamoto’s shoulder.

It’s always like that with Tsuna. Easy, with the laughter always at his fingertips, just a little past the faded memories of old pain. It’s one of the things he likes best about him.

For a while after they come back from the Shimon island Yamamoto finds their comfortable configuration strangely rearranged. When they tumble into bed Tsuna ends up behind him, his arms wrapped around Yamamoto’s waist, his head pressed hard against the back of Yamamoto’s neck, where Yamamoto can  feel Tsuna’s breath raising the fine hairs there and making him shiver. Tsuna’s toes brush against the backs of his calves and Yamamoto can’t help but smile because it must look ridiculous, all not-even-160 centimeters of Tsuna curled around him like if Tsuna just tries hard enough, his small body can stretch to shield all of Yamamoto’s. Encompass him completely.

Sometimes, now, Tsuna is the one slipping his hands under Yamamoto’s shirt instead, his rings heavy and cool and his warm fingers anxious and searching as they slide over Yamamoto’s stomach and along his side. Yamamoto holds still for five, fifteen minutes at a time, until the circular patterns turn absentminded and caressing instead of urgent. He lets it pass in unremarked silence for the better part of a week, until one day he turns his head and murmurs, “hey.” Tsuna’s hand freezes; his breath halts; Yamamoto can almost feel his heart pause for a half beat. He smiles softly and reaches down to cover Tsuna’s hand with his, pressing it firmly against the smooth and undamaged skin of his stomach.

“Hey. That tickles.” For a moment they lie together, silent and still, until Tsuna’s laughter bubbles up and over the back of Yamamoto’s neck, and Tsuna’s fingers dig into Yamamoto’s sides in earnest until he’s wiggling away and laughing hard enough to bring his dad up the stairs to check on them.

  
  



End file.
